Behind closed doors
by XxxShadzxxX
Summary: When Italy has been murdered, many nations are petrified or angry, including Romano. They form groups in order to track and kill the murderer to avenge their lost comrade. However, the murderer can only be a nation, as a nation can only kill another nation... Warning: Yaoi, Character death, violence, swearing and lots of angst.
1. Sospecha: Paranoid doll

Chapter One

Romano~!" Spain called loudly for the scruffy Southern half of Italy. There was no answer, no "barstado," no dark chocolate haired man in the hallway, casually leaning against against the crimson hued paint, waiting for the Spaniard to come home from work. 'This is unusual' Spain thought, walking down the suddenly seeing endless hallway. Spain walked briskly, unused to the silence etched into the stone of the building at this time of day. Usually his companion, the fiery nation, was here everyday to greet him- albeit reluctantly. The brown unruly haired Spaniard opened the kitchen, hoping to find the younger there cooking or snaking on both their sacred ruby fruits. Spain practically drooled thinking about the ripe fruits sitting in the cupboard to his right. Absently reaching, Spain grabbed the tomato admiring it's beauty. The curve of the green petals, slowly reaching for the ceiling, coming from the bent bumpy emerald stem. The crimson skin swept over the jewel concealed inside like a blanket over a sleeping young Romano. Spain could remember the way the child's face was slightly flushed when he slept, a shade of pink on his puffy cheeks. Spain remembered kissing him on that cheek, his way of displaying his fatherly love, before muttering 'Buenos noche' before retreating to his bedroom. Spain smiled at the memory, before putting the tomato on the counter for when the Southern Italian returned to Spain's house. He then brushed his hand against the boiling pot, before picking the rose red painted object and placing on the white washed counter. 'I'll go out to the garden to get the ingredients for dinner,' Spain decided.

Slowly walking out of the door, Spain was presented with a wash of many bright colours that formed his- and Romano's- garden. There was many splotches and hues of green, representing the cabbage growing spontaneously all over the garden in random places. Then there were the apple trees lining the garden like a decorative frame of a photograph. To his right was the ever growing rows of ripe, crimson tomatoes like scattered confetti. Spain smiled, grabbing the always-near-by basket. It was the colour of a beech tree with strips of the cream wood woven under and over each other, taking the shape of a bowl. The handle was a carefully cut strip of leather fashioned like the strap of a shoulder bag. He swung it over his tanned shoulder and set to work. He couldn't help thinking about Romano though, what if something had happened to him? What if he was in peril, being stabbed by Turkey or molested by France?

"Stop it, Antonio, you are over reacting. Romano is not dying, he wouldn't allow it." Spain assured himself, trying to comfort himself from the hours ticking by and no show of Romano. He walked back inside, ripe tomatoes swinging from his left shoulder, humming a nervous yet comforting tune. He checked the clock, 6:30, an hour had passed. Spain's dark brows furrowed, as he grabbed a masher commonly used for potatoes but in his and the Southern Italian's case: tomatoes. He proceeded to mash the many tomatoes before beginning to fry some onions in a pan near him. Then, the Spaniard began to mix them together adding a few basil leaves for flavour to the sauce. He left that together on the stove, whilst he made for the cellar.

The cellar stairs were steep and seemed to go on forever, melting into the abyss of darkness. He felt along the bumpy wall, searching for that one vital thing he needed to achieve his task. He eventually came across said thing and the entire cellar luminously lit up. The cellar walls were bricked, the owner never bothering to paint it or shower it with wallpaper in many hues of red and yellow- the sacred colours of his beloved flag. He went to the many shelves against the wall in front of him, originally thought and used to store his books in the admiring language of passion and his many dairies kept over the years. Now they were used to store one thing: Wine. Mostly, the drink was used to make many Itallian and Spanish dishes, such as bolognase sauce or used for flavouring in a pasta bake. But sometimes, they would use the sweet alcohol to wash down a feast after their many siestas. He took a bottle of red wine to the kitchen. He pored out 120ml into a measuring jug before tipping into a crystalline cup. He thought about drinking it to ease his anxious and worried mind before deciding against it. He tipped it into the sauce, displayed in a smooth circle on a sauce pan. He stirred allowing his mind to be washed and caught up in the smells and wonders of making sauces. He was left there stirring for 50 minuets adding very few garlic cloves, before it became thick and smooth. He smiled, looking at the complete sauce before glancing at the clock. 7:30, he read. No sign of Romano. He decided that he had waited too long, before storing the prepared sauce in a food container and placing it in the fridge. He grabbed his plaid trench coat (a gift from Northern Italy) and set out.

Outside the sun had just begun to set, painting the sky in various pinks, oranges and purples fading into blue at the edges. The curls of the tanned man were lifted in the chilly autumn breeze yet giving his face a defined look. His eyes were a soft pastel shade of emerald green, the shape that of a halved avocado, with soft wrinkles- the only thing giving away the fact he wasn't young. His nose was slightly upturned, giving him a slightly mischievous look like a Piskey statue. However, the one thing that made his face look incomplete was that missing smile. His lips were full and a light brown like always but the usual sunny smile that lit up any passer's day was lacking, instead replaced by a stern and worried look. His eyebrows were furrowed in concentration, creating a series of lines at his forehead, trying to spot that legendary curl in the streets. He sighed, ready to collapse- partly due to starvation, but mostly from sickly anxiety plaguing him and sweeping over his like a tsunami carrying him out to sea. He walked down the street, almost turning round the corner that the local pub rested on. The pub that him, Prussia and France hung out on a weekly basis. He saw and was stopped by England, who's face was grave.

"England?" The nation of Spain stuttered. "What's wrong?" He tried to force a smile to cheer up his rival.

"It's Italy, we need to have a World meeting now. The other's are already on their way." He spat out, his ordinary composure lost. 'Why was he so fired up and this must be bad,' Spain thought. He and England got in a local taxi and began to drive off to the World Summit.


	2. Sospecha: Rolling Boy

Chapter two

"What's wrong?" Spain asked England, unusual panic creeping and entangling in his vocal chords. His hair had become more tussled and knotted than usual, due to the many runs through his strands messing them and forcing them to mingle. Spain didn't even know what was going on yet he felt the bile rise to his throat, from the wild and unnerved look in England's emerald eyes.

"We- you'll find out when we reach the World Summit Building, just a few kilometres from here. I will tell you all at once, although China followed by Romano knows already..." He trailed off, his voice become a thoughtful, just over a whisper, mutter. His caterpillar eyebrows arching forward in a scowl, but as Spain knew- a scowling train of thought. It wouldn't have made sense to others as they see this on the blonde's face all the time but as rivals- and a kind of friendship- Spain could tell this was his 'thinking' face.

"Romano." The brunette processed what he had said, the fact he knew where his precious Italian was. "Where's Roma?" He asked, hope glazing his eyes. A look cascading to the seat located next the green eyed nation, his response. England's face was suddenly solemn, like someone has presented a badly done Yorkshire Pudding in his face.

"Romano is at the World Meeting." His tone was flat but wavered and cracked at the end, but it reflected the tone someone would use if ending a perfectly normal, yet in this case obsurd, conversation. England's eyes were pitiful- pitying Spain. Spain frowned at this, wondering why. 'Romano is involved but if England isn't telling, does that mean Romano is hur- No, don't think like that! No he won't be, he couldn't be...' Spain suddenly felt the car stop.

"Spain, get up. We are stopping to get fuel." The British man glowered, as Spain began to fiddle with the seat buckle. Lazily pressing the green button that was delicately painted onto the black, the brunette was yanked up the surprising muscular blonde. Spain muttered an unusually disdained 'Gracias Inglaterra,' before attempting to stand by himself. He felt his knees weaken but he managed to ready himself, after many attempts.

"Spain... You're worried about Romano, aren't you?" The shrill accent coated the air. Spain mentally scolded himself; when had he become so readable- so predictable? He had once been an amazing conqueror, forcing many colonies and nations to kneel before him- including England quite a few times. Even as his armada fell ship by ship, he had still gotten this proud obnoxious country to kneel before him.

_The wind danced across the deck, scattering many men like they were feathers. Cannon balls raced across the wood, battering the masts and sending splinters scurrying to sink into the flesh of anyone they could reach. Crashes were heard and fire began to spread. Orange, red and yellows were seen mingling with the prussian blue of the dim sky; black and grey interlocked, flying off the jaws of the rising fire. All the Captain knew was that he was here; he was aboard. _

"_Good evening Spain, I see you have boldly come over to the front door." An accent announced, masculinity mixing with the cockiness tone. _

"_Give me back the Spanish Netherlands! We do not want your petty English Queen involved in our land; get out." The Spanish man cried, his palm coiling around the jewelled handle, ready to pull out the weapon._

"_You know I cannot do that, Spain, for there is a revolution there. I just want to help." The pale lips tugged towards the sky, entrancing his porcelain face into a triumphant smirk. _

_The unruly, dark haired, Spanish man thrust his weapon from the case and prepared for a fight. This time, to death. "You are __a coward, Inglaterra!" He roared, his face contorted into a lion._

"_I am no coward..."_

The English man stepped into the wooden doors and began to browse the aisles. "Want anything Antonio?" He called, his gaze shifting to the scraggly, misshapen, tufty man who happened to be 15 paces behind him, hovering around the door; barely inside. His hands, yet again, scattered and paced his raven hair, his emerald eyes crawling with the pain of not knowing. _Poor soul_, England thought; his caterpillar eyebrows creased in a frown of worry. _Why is he worried about that worthless nation, anyway? He's a foul mouthed, cunning, cowardly nation; a misfit. Romano's a auburn haired, woman born coward. He's nothing compared to his brother, the black sheep of an empire. How could his grandfather, The Roman Empire, cope with such a prima donna- how could North Italy keep him as a brother? How could he make Spain become soft hearted and full of cotton wool?_

_He's worthless; he shouldn't be here._

Spain left the shop, fed up of waiting for that English man. He should get to the meeting; get to Romano. _The moon to his sun. _Romano was beautiful; he had opened Spain's eyes to the beauty of the world. He had opened his eyes to the past, present and future- he had taught him to appreciate today, tomorrow and yesterday. _He's a diamond in a sky full of stars; barely noticed but worth much more than everyone else..._

_And I wanted to trade him for his brother._

The crystal tears curved and glided down his cheeks and nose, deciding to rest on his full lips or to dive off his chin which was dotted with jet black stubble. He still regreted trying to trade him for his oblivious and charming brother; his brother who was perfect. This was centuries ago, in the 1400s, but Antonio had never quite gotten over his mistake. It had not seemed to be a mistake at the time, however. Southern Italy, refered to as Romano by almost everyone, was a very reckless boy,- his apron was often covered in tomato juice from the amount he ate. It had a remarkable likeness to the blood that would decorate Spain's axe like gathering rust; however the boy had barely been involved in any bloodshed battles. There was one time that He had a wound though, and that was due to him.

_Romano trecked across the creaking floorboards, careful to watch his step as he was weary he would tumble and flop through it. He could still see this glinting in the twilight; exactly like a star or diamond. He saw the silver painted into a vague shape, the patches of caked red. Just like tomatoes. Romano toddled towards it, carefully past the sanded wooden door- the colour of ochre, making sure he didn't wake his master. This new, unruly haired, conqueror who had forced him away from his brother; who forced him to break his vow. _

_Crash!_

_The bookcase toppled across the landing, blocking his way to reach for the silver, glinting edged star. He yelped, putting his hand to his mouth to stiffle his edging suprise. _

"_Romano!" A voice cried, worry edging towards him. Spain heard a crash that had cruely ripped him from his sleep but knew that his colony could be in peril. His Romano was only a young nationand France, abiet a friend, could have snuck in to steal him. _

_Romano knew he had to hide, or his master would shout at him and possibly hit him like he did with the other colonies. He jumped over the bookcase, suppressing and urgent scream that would rip his throat- had he released it. His knee had bashed on the courner of the bookcase, dyeing the courner a nasty hue of redwood, caused as the colour blended with the light pigment of this case. He leaped to the floor, determination casting it's spell in order to send the young boy to his treasure. _

_It wasn't the treasure he imagined._

_He had found it; the curve of the glinting silver ending with a sharp, crying edge before fleeing to the handle. There were splashes of delicate tinted rust that threatened to encase the young nation. He was intrigued by this star, although the shape was not quite right. It was laid next to a oval of stone that would turn if the handle was turned. What is this, Romano thought. His hand snaked, reaching for this new found treasure, and brushed the star. It was cold. He ran his hand along the edge, only to recoil. The pain went from his hand to his wrist, as he began to go numb. How can my feelings change so quickly? The blood poured from the cut, little but incredibly deep. Romano considered calling for Spain, not knowing that his master was frantically searching for him._

_Romano awoke in the hospital, the next day; Spain had failed to care for his little colony._

Spain had journeyed to the World Summit but knew that England was probably a few kilometers behind him. Kirkland was as stubbon as a yack. He ran through the doors, ignoring the paintings littering the walls, for he would not fail his colony- well ex-colony now. He would not fail him again.

"I'm here, sorry I'm late!" Spain cried, his usually cheery voice budding with a ton of anxiety. "I hope you didn't start without me; Should we wait for Inglaterra?"

"No, mon cherie, England knows what this meeting is about." A French accent studded the air like a thousand sequins surfing the air. A thick blanket of impending dispair circled the room covering everyone in a hunched motion. Some were crying, some were shaking in fear or dread, some were comforting others but one was shouting:

"Shut up you stupid barstard! It's your freaking fault; you started the World Wars and forced him to transfer sides so it's your bloody fault he's gone!" Romano screamed, his voice unusually menacing and dark.

"It's not my fault, I love him as much as you do but there's nothing you could do to bring him back!" Germany's voice impaled the room. Romano stood like a mountain being forced down by a tsunami, unwilling to bend to the offered comfort.

"Just shut up and let him vent, West!" Prussia cried. "It's his way of letting his emotions through; he isn't made of our level of sensitivity. He is his brother!" The German accent declared.

"What's wrong with Romano and the others?" I whispered to France.

_"I'm afraid that young Italy isn't with us anymore, he was murdered..." _France face was grave.


	3. Sospecha: Paradichlorobenzene

There were murmurs of enclosed agreement, from all but Romano. Apparently they wanted to lure the murderer out and capture him- not _kill _him. You'd have to be a sick, sick, bastard in order to murder his brother. Veniziano is- was- a good hearted, warm natured, talented nation; a nation of reminiscence, love, passion. Veniziano was one thing and one thing only: perfect.

" _You can kill two people with one gun, you know;" the German said, face solemn._ The other nations concluded it would have to be two people, or one exceptionally strong person. That followed accusations of the murderer or murderers being: Germany, Prussia, America, Hungary- just to name a few. Romano enjoyed these small moments of silence; moments he could finally _think_. The streets were dimly lit from the street lights like oil lamps, radiating with a pale yellow; a yellow diluted with water. The cracks on the pavement reminded him of the strained smile, when he claimed it was okay. He was the most worried about the killer- would he move onto Germany then him? Or would it be completely random, like Russia or China? _Everything's wrong._ The world was in turmoil, collapsing with a impending tsunami; Romano could feel it. The love was melting, as the world prepared for battling an unknown enemy...

_Moreover, what if the murderers were in the meeting?_ They would know what we were planning and how; such stupidity! The murderers would know the plan and counter it- but that brought up one point, he thought, _no one could be trusted. _All that could be confirmed, a hundred percent, was that Italy was dead. _Gone_. Who would benefit from that? Romano, for one, would; along with many other people; for example: Germany. He would be able to break into the weak Government his brother has and would claim yet another colony. Just like Russia. I swear though, Romano thought, when I find that bastard who killed him, I will slit his throat. It will be one on one; no America trying to be a hero or England arresting him, thinking it's 'gentlemanly'. One on one.

But, now that he think of it; the style of the murder... It was shaped in the manner of Spain's style. Of course, no one dared to even take that into consideration- Spain is too _oblivious_. The way his axe would move when he swung it at an enemy; he was poised, with his legs bent slightly, and his rough hands- from the guitar playing and the amount of wars he had to endure- tentatively curled around the handle. But what was the worst, Romano thought, was the way his eyes glinted- the way they would light up. All he could see was the hidden, treacherous, monstrous glint reflected in the emerald irises. The way he would smirk, ever-so-slightly, when his enemy cried out on the battlefield.

But when he came home, he was different.

_The footsteps echoed around the mansion; the repeated thump, thump, thump that collided and merged with the young boy's heartbeat. It bounced off the cracking walls, echoing louder and louder. His heart began to race in a tsunami of mixed emotions; mixed feelings. He knew what the cloaked man was like arriving back- battered, bruised, beaten- yet a small, sincere, smile would creep up his face. A smile that, somehow, made Romano want to run, but he'd get used to it... He was told he'd get used to Spain's infatuated smirk remaining from hell. _

"_Romano...?" The voice rasped, barely above the audible whisper. Romano remained hidden, in the dark mahogany wardrobe, silently shaking. However, the young child knew he would be found soon- the adult would find him. Spain was a wolf; dark, mysterious, ferocious. He shrunk to the edge, making himself as narrow and small as possible. A usual act- happening around seven or eight times a year, usual in Romano's eyes. One thing was different with this, though- he was fighting England. If he had lost, Romano may be punished like the master's many collected colonies- tokens of his victories. To put it mildly, the young boy was concerned. No, he wasn't. In fact, Romano was many things, but most of all, the young boy was afraid._

_Romano was truly petrified of the axe-wielding spectre._

The dark red haired man frowned at the surprising memory; he had tried to suppress those times when he- the notorious South Italy- would cower at such a man's presence. It was like a tiger being frightened of a spider- there was no such thing! But could a spider's eyes become neglectfully narrow, the hands turning into a panthers claws? If such things existed, then the tanned man fit the bill.

"_I found you my little Romano... Mi querido." His emerald eyes smiled, though Romano was sure there was a sinister edge to his overflowing aura. The bubbles in his eyes were boiling with contained anger. The distinctive pupil in the centre of the iris extended in size, which gave the appearance of sleepiness or the fact he was drunk. Neither was the case. The pupils were most likely, enlarged by the growing lustre for battle. Romano hated him in this state. He nearly always came back to his home with these mannerisms; someone often ended up hurt or inches away from death, as a result. _

"_S-Spain... How was the battle?" The minuscule country, compared the the hulking one before him, knew this question would have two consequences. Either the war-hungry nation would smile and rave about his successful plunder or a frown would caress his face and he would find someone to hit. He never hit his prized henchman, South Italy. This would often confuse him into thinking the man was 'obsessed' with him._

_This was not the case; Spain wanted to simply be a good father to hos colonies; the others, however, knew that the Yellow flagged nation was a brute- a tyrant- South Italy did not._

And why would Spain even want to hurt North Italy? He loved him to bloody pieces; like he was the sun and Spain the moon- both revolving around each other. How did Romano know this trickery? The marooned haired man saw him- saw that he wanted to trade! Spain is such an idiot to think that Romano wouldn't know; he followed Spain, worried Austria would hurt him. Austria did have a tremendous cruel streak. Heck, most nations did! Even, Italy had a cruel streak- especially when it came to Romano. He would hit him- punched and kicked and laughed until Romano wanted to fucking die.

Romano, however, was no different.


	4. Sospecha: Coward Mont Blanc

Spain went to the place he could offer the most comfort- the place where the dark haired man was. The reddish-brown haired man would always go to one specific place, in his childhood which the bigger nation suspected he was hiding now, when angry. The unruly haired nation would have to venture six, or seven, miles to talk to his underling; the result often broke his heart. Spain would see the tears run down his face, from those emerald eyes, like a storm- the hunch of his back that made the guardian think that he would snap. Romano had always been frail; that's why Spain would always be there to comfort him, even when it became hopeless, even when he would sink to low- though he had yet to see that.

And that's why he found himself knocking at the oak door of the modern apartment Romano lived in.

Romano had never been bothered to give Spain his house key, for the Spaniard was always 'misplacing' things- when, in fact, he lost them. So the ochre, unruly, haired man would have to resort to knock the oak door with the stained window. The picture of a dove- a contradiction to the inhabitants personality. Spain found it slightly humorous, knowing that North Italy made him buy it.

Italy...

He wouldn't think of the younger nation- for it would dampen his mood- and he would be able to fulfil his role as a friend. Romano meant so much to the broad nation- as a friend, of course. Spain was a nation of passion, often regarded as 'the nation of passion' along with France and Prussia, so it may have been thought of as brotherly affection. Spain was sure it may have been a tiny bit more- even if it was miniature. France was referred as 'the country of love,' whilst Prussia 'the country of awesome'.

Romano answered the door, though Spain hadn't knocked.

Romano's hair was a maroon mass of curls- quite unusual for him. It flicked in various positions around the frame of his skull that was the ideal imitation of a fluffy cat, and to Spain, cats were adorable. Romano's personality differed. Unlike his younger counterpart, Romano had a mouth of a sailor and the sharp mind of a knife; his brother was quite intelligent- though not as much as Romano- and had the artistic talent, and creativity, of a paintbrush. Romano's live was sheltered in blood, as his brother couldn't fight at all, and was left to fight the invading countries. Italy had it easy, compared to him. Although Italy was adorable- he was cute, cuddly but Spain knew he could be manipulative...

"What do you want, bastard?" Romano's voice was thick, like he had recently been sobbing, the emerald eyes bloodshot- but his attitude remained the usual. It was his way of dealing with struggle, Spain thought, and Romano wanted to keep himself 'normal'. However, Spain noticed one subtle change- Romano was gripping the cuff of the slightly baggy pristine white shirt. A sign of worry.

"I'm here to uh," the chocolate haired Spaniard was at loss for words; he knew Romano better than anyone- but with that came the knowledge of Romano's state, when angered or upset. Romano became unpredictable, slightly manic, thinking the whole world was against him. Then gain, he thought that anyway. "I'm here to comfort you- you were his brother..." Antonio blushed, rubbing his hand through his dark locks, slightly embarrassed.

"_I don't need it." _

Spain knew that wasn't true- Romano was just being stubborn. Hypersensitive. But those words rung in his ears- the tone Spain had used to coax him out of bed in the morning, when he was younger; soothing yet firm. Romano was using that exact tone- it made him feel like a child being scolded.

When did Romano grow up so fast?

"Romano, please; I'm your friend!" Spain cried, annoyed that Romano was so persistent. So damn stubborn. If Romano slammed the door in his face, he would climb through the glass opaque windows; If Romano let him in, he would smother him in nurturing love. He would help South Italy grow into a beautiful flower, covered in the dew of the essential morning, petals the colour of the passionate sun dipped into the pure clouds. The leaves covered in the emerald of his iris. He will become the most graceful flower- instead of the seedling he is now. Antonio would nurture him until he completes his transition.

"No," The tone was choked like acid rain pouring onto the immaculate statue.

The door slammed in his face with a menacing roar; the owner retreated to the solitude of the dwarf apartment. Why hadn't he gone in there? The old Antonio would have done it, swinging his battle axe merrily, singing a deformity of a tune. His eyes would glint like rays of sunshine, the tanned skin hard and brittle with the many years of training. The many years of slaughter. But not now- Antonio was a shell of what he had been. Still full of sunshine like before but not full of his energising bravado.

**_Love me..._**

Romano felt himself fall like a pin, his body pressed against the oak door. The white walls whispered that it was all his fault. You should have been a better brother; you shouldn't have been so mean; you even drove Spain away so you could feel sorry for your own ego. _You're a dead man._ Romano did feel a cross of regret and guilt after his initial anger- an anger that's remains still coursed between his veins.

I'm just Romano- not Italy; they couldn't even grace me with that.

The walls seemed to cave and wash over him, the paintings falling off the wall and smashing with agreement. His knuckles pounding against the bright wash of the wall, beginning to stain it with crimson. He hated the injustice- why couldn't it be him. Romano should have fallen in his place- only Spain cared about him. Spain would get over it, eventually, the crystals would stop staining Antonio's cheeks after a while. So Romano decided to do what was best:

He helped himself to a glass of wine and some sleeping pills.


	5. Sospecha: The Riddler who can

_The mound of rock had burst with the glory of passion, hungry to consume those who had survived. Many had choked from the black parasites invading their lungs and dropped like the rocks raining down from the sky. The boats had gone in a flurry, with the panicked, and slightly pompous, people on them. Everyone wanted to get out of the cultural city._

_From the, now, Prison of Pompeii. _

Silence whirled around the countries, each of them accepting it but secretly plotting. There was to be no funeral- which Romano, Spain, France, Austria and Hungary had not agreed to. After all, Veniziano was much loved, more than many others, and deserved to go out in 'style'.

Spain noticed the most angry look on Romano- as if tomatoes had been announced extinct. The younger nation's eyebrows furrowed in slight concentration; whilst his lip curled into a menacing passionate deadly snarl of rage at their plans.

"We still haven't justified a completely solid plan- of how to catch this killer. All we know- for sure- is that he, or she, is a nation." Austria announced, obviously wanting to steer away from the tedious topic.

"I say we go in there, and blow them up! You all will go in there- like a squad- and I'll be the hero;" America shouted, energetic but filled to the brim with menace and revenge. This was unlike America- to lock away all this hate but this was not an everyday situation.

"At least have a decent plan, you idiot!" England patronised, the thick, black, eyebrows slanting like caterpillars on a heavy leaf. Although, England was secretly found of the obnoxious country- though he found his plans stupid and reckless.

"How about we approach this carefully... Like spy on everyone?" A violet eyed man, clutching a pale white polar bear in his arms, suggested. The eyes were hopeful, shining with the chance of it being accepted.

"'Merica, that was a pretty awesome idea! We should all do that, but reveal nothing to them- make it awesomely random!" Prussia jumped with the idea, almost causing the floor to shake with his energy. Of course, Prussia knew that this man was not America, but he enjoyed to wind up the maple loving country, all the same. To him, it was a way of lightening the mood for the others- because, although he was indifferent on the outside- inside he was breaking. He had saw his brother's face when the news arrived, heartbroken and his personality became shrouded with hate. It was like he had become a Nazi again- exactly like when he was caught up in World War II.

_His face was hard like the face of the dedicated dictator. At first the blonde haired, Aryan, man had been concerned- even scared- but had eventually succumbed to his leader's malicious, misshapen, heinous ways. The previous, disguised, love for other countries had vanished until he was only left with the bitter painful anger. The fury of his people coursed through him, turning him into a bloodthirsty- modernised- cut throat. Ever since the cowardly, auburn haired rat of a man had left him, he had the minuscule chance to immerse himself in the battle ahead. The battle would determine the final outcome- whether the black haired man with the quirky moustache's 'solution' would be the fate of the world._

_He grabbed his riffle and set out to meet Russia. After all, it was September 30__th__ of 1941 and his boss had a lucky feeling._

Prussia dreaded his brother to become like that again. He had only snapped out of it at the demolition of the Berlin wall. Somehow, Prussia had survived- maybe because of 'unification'- similar to North and South Italy; they had both survived. Maybe his old man was looking out for him, or maybe- even after countries are disposed of, they still remain.

"No, Prussia, you stupid head," America said. "I never said anything. And plus- Romano said that the killer's most likely among us, so they won't give anything away." America frowned, his eyebrows mimicking England's- they became furry cats resting on his brow.

"It's _wouldn't or will not_, you twit." England spat, edgier than normal; the worry lines were prominent on his forehead and his eyes twitched in an irritated manner. His hands were always busy, fluttering to read pages of _Five Children and It _by Edith Nesbit or writing notes and various outcomes of crisp, lined paper. He had disposed of his tea- too distracted to ask China for one; plus China was currently creeping away from Russia.

Russia was his usual self but no one took any notice, knowing that even though Ivan was stupidly scary- he wouldn't dare kill a nation; torture was much more fun.

"Shut up, you tea drinking prick..." America muttered, his tone annoyed. I know England's kind of hurt by Italy's death but there's no reason to take it out on us, he thought. England was suffering much more than most- probably on the same stage as Spain- and seemed to blame himself for it. America knew this from the scattered notes on the table- and being the cheeky nosey he is, decided to take a look at a few; who couldn't resist the ramblings of a mad man?

_'Dammit, I should have saw it coming'; 'the stupid fairy told me about danger...'; 'Why would someone kill Italy of all people?' _The most worrying, however, was one simple sentence: _'I think I know who it is.' _

America knew that England was expanding his mind with this new, mind churning, puzzle. It pained the younger country to see his 'brother' like that- even when Spain thrashed him, he came back with a smile on his face, claiming that he would beat that jerk. It was hard to do, but England did it- he did the impossible... So why was America, with his messy mousey hair and contagious smile, worried? He would catch the culprit, with his brilliant reflexes and snippy attitude- with his extraordinary wit. But one word came to mind about that one phrase: impossible.

But England would do it he can do the impossible...


	6. Sospecha: Antichlorobenzene

America had done one thing he hated to do to an ally- He followed England. After a rather uneventful discussion on how to approach the murder, murderers, England had left; practically sprinted out. The energetic man noticed those florescent eyes, filled to the brim with raw determination with a flicker of regret. But now he had slowed to a speedy walk. Yellow mixed with the water pouring onto cracked concrete, making England's shadow distorted, which reflected the younger country's mood. America was wearing a bomber's jacket- the one England had so 'kindly' given him- whilst the blonde nation wore a trench coat. It was a lighter green than his jade eyes, that happened to be the same colour as his pristine uniform.

He suddenly quickened his pace, that leaf green coat fluttering like an emperor's- was he aware of the younger nation?

The blue eyed nation picked up his pace but no so much that he would be detected. That was hard, due to the determination that made the snippy man almost run. The speed he was walking at was too slow for car but too fast for a bike- it seemed, to the mousey haired man, that even one of the eldest countries could move quite fast. England had not turned around, allowing the younger one the space to relax a little. Only a little.

Even if America had been less cautious, the blonde wouldn't had noticed; he had to reach the 'culprit'.

After some time of passing many discarded, falling down, buildings and cracked streets, they eventually reached a little house. In length, it couldn't have been bigger than a maisonette, but in width- it had to be a dozen elephants, at least! A small patio of careful white squares lead up to a red painted oak door, the colour of passion. A row of vases lay along the boarder of the house- skipping the door of course, that contained carnations. They were a pastel pink, with ruffled petals, reminding England of Victorian dresses. The variety of shades, often diluted, and added ruffles everywhere making them great puddings. The flowers were similar, as they were blooming. The walls were pure white, creating an atmosphere of piece. Ironic. As he stepped along the neat concrete slabs, The blonde noticed little deformed cracks in them; the only betrayal of the true flaws of the man who lived here.

America knew he couldn't follow his brother any longer, for he would be caught.

England had finally reached the door, preferring to use the old fashioned door knocker- like a local undertaker- instead of the electrical bell. Crashing was heard and a small deep groan, responded from inside. Several moments later, the door creaked. Slowly, slowly, slowly. A face appeared, a tanned innocence. A hand emerged, coarse and rough from axe wielding. The door swung open; the nation was revealed. His hair was a matte brown, dull and extremely wavy. The eyes emerald and glinting with subtle sadness- which was enhanced due to the raven, hairy, eyebrows furrowing desperately. The mouth held a petite pout but showed a minute smile.

"England." The man stated; "would you like to come in?"

The blonde haired nation stepped inside with the force of a tornado and the impatience of a little dog. The white hands were twisting as the fingers danced with each other in agitation; he was not known for his patience. Leaf green eyes remained intact on the back of the nation in case he made any violent moves.

The hallway was a reddened sunset, with white beams and various paintings. They contained nearly every country, including himself- but one particular portrait caught his attention. Romano. The stubborn, raging, sensitive nation with the most beautiful amber eyes was tiny. Unlike the others, bestowed with bright lighting- the clearness of memories- and defined landscapes, this one was dark. Many greys littered the background making the figure seem cocooned in a everlasting darkness. The figure was slightly hunched, wearing a plain shirt and jeans, caught in the wind. If it wasn't for the delicately coloured reddish brown hair and curl, England could have sworn it was the man living there, himself. The likeness was remarkable.

"Do you like it?" His voice was fond, as his emerald orbs met the English nation's lighter ones.

"It's...Different from the others." England rolled the words around his mouth, trying to pick exactly the right ones, as not to aggravate the older one. He was older, much older- emerging with the powerful 'Mama Greece'- but had faster reflexes when one should be worn.

"Yes, but then he is different;" The man stated, a small sad flicker lighting up his face. "Romano is- he's Romano. No more, no less. Romano is like the dark side of the moon."

"The dark side of the moon?" His caterpillar eyebrows furrowed, making his face grotesque.

"Yes." That was all he said, trying to end this painful conversation. Why was England so forward; analysing every detail presented to him in such a detective's fashion? He had obviously wanted something, so why try to make any civil conversation? "Can you just get to the point?"

"What?" England raised his eyebrows at this man's sudden outburst. "Gosh, I'm sorry... I just thought..."

"Thought what?! Can't you see I'm trying to figure out who the murderer is! Romano's out at this very minute trying to find this stupid murderer... He many even be killed..." The avocado eyes filled with tears. "And you think I'm the murderer... I can tell from your unusual edginess around me."

"I thought- the fighting style." England stuttered.

"Just go."

England turned with clenched fists; if he was the murderer, he would have already pounced. He slammed open the door and made his way down the patio. England heard a crack beneath his foot.

Glasses?

America's glasses were laying on the concrete, with a giant crack staining the left lenses- almost snapping it in half. A note lay next to it, with delicate cursive handwriting.

_Hello, Idiota._

_You shouldn't had let your precious Alfred follow you. You went to that stupid Spain thinking he was a murderer! Spain's too stupid for such complex things. You are stupid too, England. Now I have him and you can't save him. You'll never be the big brother. You will not be his hero._

_Come find me if you can!_

_-Jefe de Pista_

England felt himself collapse in tears; he needed to find his brother- he had to... Even if he, in turn, died.


	7. Sospecha: Poker Face

_He could feel the beatings getting harder and harder with each rhythmic fall. His eyes had shut to stop looking at that smiling face whispering that sweetly intoxicating poison. He could feel the vile spit pepper his face, causing him to wince. It was the first time in two months. His brother should have gotten over it but obviously hadn't. He had gone back to him, he always came back to him, and the country would end up laying on the floor with his world slowly turning black- inch by inch. But he always heard one thing before Death would try to coax him into giving up, breathing her ice into him, one menacing thing..._

_The manifesting laughter. _

America opened his eyes, feeling the cloudiness slowly lift from his brain. The world slowly came into focus, revealing a single room with splatters of rusty red. It was white, blinding, apart from that obscure red. It was out of place, clashing against the purity of the once clean wall. A few tools lay on the ground, all stood upright like soldiers side by side. Unlike his brother's old things, these were devoid of copper red rust and recently sharpened. The handles of these instruments were made of splintered oak, the only sign of neglection. That or overuse. The instruments- weapons- gleamed silver, glinting with apprehension of the new visitor.

They had only seen one other.

"Hello Alfred." A slightly accented voice greeted. "You know who I am don't you?" The tone was amused and clearly masculine. America could see raven, thick boots that stood proudly and black neat trousers with clean crimson straps. He didn't want to see the man's face yet, for he would want to only glimpse at it when he brought him to court.

"Yes; you are 'Jefe de Pista' or The Ringmaster." He spat with disgust, refusing that impulse to look up at his captor. "You're the Devil that blooming hit me."

"Ah..." He faltered, unsure what to do with the calmness of his second victim. "It was required for the plan to work. Don't worry, I won't kill you- not yet, anyway." He smirked before turning around and exiting the room. He locked the door- oak as well.

America finally gave in and looked at the face still staring through the bars of the windowed door. Sinister green eyes smirked, smiling wide with triumph. They seemed to glow with an unpredictable warmth and unreleased malice- the combination of a warm hearted killer. But there was no such thing to Alfred. A killer was a cold blooded, evil, deviant devil; the devil.

But there was something just under the cold surface of those eyes.

_He had woken up, for he always did; like always, his head was pounding. His green eyes could see the ceiling, the patterns he used to trace when tired and the chipping paint- like his personality. He had woken up in his metal, black, petite bed again. Like always. If his body didn't hurt, the young man would have dismissed it as a highly disturbing dream. That and the memories slowly trickling back. The white hot pain, the iron before that,the numbness after. He knew this would happen but he had hoped his brother would have chosen a much more convenient time; the World Meeting was this morning. The obvious choice would be to go, keep everything running smoothly, but he couldn't. His wounds would show... It didn't matter if he covered them, it would still show. _

_At least to him._

England had called yet another world meeting- he had to. The nations sat in unrestful silence, tension rolling in the room like the sea's monstrous waves.

"America has been taken by the Killer." France repeated, his blue eyes briefly alternating between Prussia's and Spain's faces. "But this can help us identify him or her."

Some confused faces met the Nation of Love's perfectly sculptured face in intense curiosity.

"It's simple. From what Angleterre has told us, the note's contents, the person speaks Spanish... And, also, fights in a similar style to Spain. It is not exactly the same. As well, Spain was speaking to England at the time young Alfred disappeared- or taken- so he's innocent." France reasoned, trying desperately to clear his dear friend of suspicion.

"That nails it down to fewer people- quite dramatically;" Romano stated.

"Sí." Spain added, relief shining in his eyes at the new-found evidence leaving him clearer.

"So let us draw up some suspects, even if they are here;" Austria suggested, whilst Hungary massaged his left shoulder. His violet eyes were hopeful due to the aroused hope of catching this brutal murderer.

"Very well. We should take it in turns to put forward suspects." Germany's masculine voice betrayed a subtle hint of pent up anger.

England sat, making notes of the suspected countries. However, even though Spain was innocent, he had circled one of the 5 names put forward. It suited the persona and clues perfectly- the attitude, the languages, the sudden action of taking his brother... It was perfect- only he had hoped he had gotten it right. He may be guessing in desperation but it felt right. He knew the murderer was in the room and he knew he was watching England's reaction. He knew to tread carefully or more may become engulfed in his trap.

He met the leafy eyes of the Killer; they glowed emerald. His face was solemn, as if regretting something. Maybe America? But he wasn't looking at him, like England was- His eyes were looking across the room, towards the door.

Then he saw what was there.

_I still went anyway, I knew I had to. My brother had left, that idiot- a violent idiot- but still one. No one home. I bet he was sucking up to that blonde, uptight man. I had to protect that bastard- that's why I was so mean to him, mean to everyone. But no one believes me- they only believe the perfect one._

_No one ever believes a bastard._


	8. Sospecha: Mad World

The auburn hair was unmistakable, the exact shade of a ginger biscuit, with the occasional milk chocolate strands. He seemed to glow with a ghostly stature and everything seemed to have dimmed about the presented man. Many had passed out of the door, not even noticing his presence, and even having the indecency to purposely pass through him!

"Why are you here;" England asked curiously once everyone had left the room and, hopefully, out of earshot. He noticed shock reading on the others face, his thin eyebrows raising in a slightly sad manner.

"You can see me? I thought that only-" The brown eyed male had to stop himself saying the name that would solve everything, releasing a small gasp to stop it tumbling from his lips.

"Yes, though the others seem not to..." The blonde nation sighed, knowing that the others did not have his marvellous eyes. Eyes that were all seeing- eyes that saw the man on the moon, eyes that saw the woman in the lake, eyes that saw the girl floating on the snow. Eyes that saw him. "You aren't real, are you?" His British accent deemed.

"No, I am perfectly real... Only certain people can see me, I only know of one other who can." He muttered, his eyes darted to the floor.

"Your murderer."

America was surprised to wake up feeling healthy- if a little groggy. He vaguely remembered what happened when that bastard returned, offering him some wine to help his slowly retreating headache. The sandy haired nation was conditioned to believe that murderers were meant to be unforgiving, harsh, laced with venom... But he was not.

"_I got you this... I don't want you getting worse." The man had presented his identity, allowing Alfred to gain a clear picture of this demonic nation. The emerald sad eyes, the reddish hair and the tracks of his tears that had recently stained his cheeks. _

"_Why are you helping me?" America snapped, his eyes blazing with hate. He could only deem the caring actions of his captor as keeping his new goods pristine so he could squeeze enough money out of his boss; it must be ransom, he thought. _

"_You weren't meant to follow Kirkland;" he said, his voice laced with a caring tone. "Kirkland was stupid, suspecting innocent, oblivious Spain. Antonio was merely like myself."_

"_Or maybe you're too much like him." America smirked at the surprise in the murderers face, the way his eyes widened ever-so-slightly and the way his lips opened a fraction. The blush crept upon his cheeks at his remark, having to look away for his adopted habits. _

No, the killer was like anyone else- that was the irony. Alfred couldn't believe it was him, someone that close! A killer with an acting conscience- it had been proven that all successful ones had none at all!

But then how was he able to kill a nation, the small voice inside asked.

"_Why did you kill him!" America screamed, anger coursing though his veins and spouting from his mouth like a thousand poisoned arrows. He noticed a subtle change in the expression- the slight clench of his masculine jaw, the barely noticeable arch of his back._

"_It was an accident..." He whispered. "I was angry, fed up, hurt. But at the same time I wanted to kill him. To see the light drain from his eyes, the smile he still wore. That same stupid, god-forsaken, smile! That god-damn bastard..." He moaned, a silent tear trickling down his face. "I never meant to go that far, sink that low, to commit such sin- I was angry. Angry, that's all. Just Angry."_

_America adjusted his moon shaped glasses, before giving the man an understanding- but cold- look. "You have still committed murder, the worst kind, and you are being hunted for it. And kidnapping me didn't help." To be honest, America couldn't forgive him- why would you forgive someone who brutally killed someone._

_Impossible._

"Yes, my murderer. He didn't mean to- it was an accident!" The man cried, his face distorted with fat, bulging, tears. His auburn hair clung to his face in distress and his nose ran in an unattractive manner. He was unsettled, to say the least.

"Who is your murderer?" England asked, his thick eyebrows narrowing in interest at the victim's defensive ploy. His hand rested on the table, an empty teacup next to it, and his body leaning forward expectantly.

"I won't say, I need to protect him."

"Who is your murderer?"

"No!"

"I need to know- he may kill someone else!" England cried, his eye twitching manically.

"He won't have- he only killed me..." A small, sad, smile decorated his face. "He didn't mean to."

"It was an accident?" England inquired, surprised. Why didn't he come forth, he thought.

"Yes, he would have never meant to kill anyone. But we all know what a nation gets like when they're angry." A ghost of a sincere smile lit up his face. Every nation once had become shrouded in darkness and sometimes, just sometimes, they retreated back to that dark era, Some more than others.

A cough, that seemed to hide a humourless laugh, came from the sandy haired nation.

"Why do you think of him so fondly?" England inquired, his eyes sparkling with overflowing interest.

"Because he's a friend; simple as that."


	9. Sospecha: Runnin'

_It was everywhere._

_The killer stood there, silently watching the latter before him. The red dyed hair that snaked in wisps on the concrete slabs of the darkened street. The southern man kneeled before the superior that was dripping in the substance. All he did though was smile at him before taking the sharp, silver, glinting metal in his hands allowing it to shallowly cut his palms. Although it hurt, he refused to release it, instead he held the pointed rectangle firmer; waiting to see if the one laying to the left of him would respond. It didn't. Why would he anyway; it wasn't as if he cared. No, no one would care for him, even the oblivious tanned man, he may have once called a friend, didn't care. He smiled, grim, for the memories he had often suppressed crept to the light, wreathing and coiling around his damaged body and behind his hurt eyes. It felt as if he was drowning, but that would be impossible as he was standing in the dimly lit alley watching the young man not even move. If he wasn't breathing at that rapidly stunned pace, the breathing laboured and torn, he would have thought the auburn haired was dead. _

_He heard the frail man cough with the sound waves that would cause blisters erupt on the organ, that protects the bones, upon those who would hear the shattered blades. "It's alright..." The man smiled, ignoring the crimson trickling down his mouth and chin like ruby tears; the tears everyone would shed once the green eyed man had finished. After all, this country had fertile lands showered with a blessed harvest every year, looks that took after the greatest and most powerful empire of all and a smile that lured everyone to his side. _

_"How is it, you dick?!" He spat, his mouth moulding into a pout of disgust and brows twisting into a frown. This was the expression he often wore when around others- usually for many reasons much much different from this situation. This man wasn't what you would call a pretty nation, unlike the one laying in front of him; he was a nation of sealed turmoil building over the years and dark reddish hair that would stick to his head whenever nervous or afraid. However, he was most famous for the blush that would creep up his cheeks- a few shades darker than the blood surrounding him- when he was angry or embarrassed, which was quite frequent. They would all laugh at him, because of this. He was sick of it- of them. They could, no should, all just disappear. It would be much better for him- truly alone without England's 'gentlemanly' banter and his blonde boyfriend's flirting at the weekly summit; America's eating habit of stuffing a piece of greasy fast food into his stinking mouth or Germany's knack to explode with commands and demands at a meeting- heck, Germany did it all the time! Apparently the latter in front didn't mind. Speaking of that, the Southern killer thought, crouching down so that he could see those brown eyes like chocolate- to match his sweet personality, no doubt. Bitter streaks peppered his face like a million kisses from angels. Even in this state- this situation- he can still remain beautiful, he angrily thought. I wish I could make you ugly, so people couldn't like you. But I can't, nothing could make you ugly._

_**Adorable, cute, happy, clean, useful, amazing, cultured, beautiful...**_

_Those words began to wriggle around his brain, threatening to eradicate all trace of humaneness left in his body, his soul even. "Don't look at me. Why on earth are you smiling!" It was more of a statement than a question, due to his harassed, surprised, bewildered tone. The smile slipped a bit, due to the reaction and he blinked a few times to possibly annoy the country. He merely towered over him so that their noses were almost touching. One was flecked with crimson streaks, the other tanned and slightly pointed. _

_"I...I am smiling because I want to die happily... Ve...Even if it's you who's going to kill me. At least I'll be back with nonno and Holy...Roman..." His eyes closed, his face instantaneously turning into a façade of peace, body limp. If it wasn't for the rips and tears of the fabric bestowed on his body, the cuts and bruises peppering his body, one would assume he was sleeping. Only the killer knew he wasn't. _

_Or at least until morning..._


	10. Falsa Realidad: How To Save a Life

Spain was baffled, to say the least. America kidnapped and Romano avoiding him- maybe due to the fact that they had an 'argument' the night before America had suddenly disappeared...

"_Y-you bastard, why?" Romano cried, his hands waving around in an animate gesture. "Why?" He repeated, tears starting to form in his grass-green eyes. _

"_Romano, you know why..." Spain sternly told the smaller nation. "You can't keep everything inside yourself; why are you so stubborn? This is only for your well-being!" His hand reached out for the angry man, his eyes pleading._

"_No." Romano whispered; "no, no, no!" He repeated, the words pronounced with exaggerated clarity yet it became a distorted plea- like he was screaming for someone to listen, even though he acted as if he couldn't care less. Romano hated nights like this; he would be left angry, confused, upset... And he always did something stupid, after. _

"_Just listen;" The older man cried, his hands roughly caressing his hair in aspiration. "For once, listen to me!" He banged his fist on the bitter-chocolate table, his eyes gazing at the patterns in the oak. Antonio hated nights like this, when Romano refused to talk, even if Spain could see the cracks in his skin. The cracks that always formed on his face, when he was agitated. The cracks that revealed Romano for what he is. The cracks that revealed the tormented soul underneath._

_Cracks that revealed what Romano sought desperately to hide. _

But Spain knew that Romano didn't do it- Romano couldn't have murdered his own brother, for goodness sake. Sure, Romano was the second person to know about the young nation's murder but that meant nothing. If going by that analysis, China is guilty...But It didn't make sense. According to the recent deductions, the obvious conclusion would be that the murderer's identity is Romano.

But that's impossible.

"_Why should I listen to you? I'm independent, you bastard!" Romano shouted, taking a thunderous step towards the passionate nation._

"_I know, Romano;" Spain rolled his eyes, his tone irritated. Why was Romano so difficult?_

"_I'm fed up of listening to you telling me what to do and what not to do- you don't own me!" Romano glared at his former boss, before slamming the door._

Romano couldn't do such a thing- and if he did, he wouldn't have been so obvious... What most didn't know about Romano is, or appears less creative than his brother, that he actually pays much more attention to detail, 'unnecessary', and is more attentive overall. The Southern Italian didn't mind a little mess- due to habit of constantly leaving things unclean, as a child- but absolutely despised a chaotic amount with a burning passion; especially if it was his own.

Ring, ring, ring, the bell called to the Spaniard. The tanned man sighed, his eyes reluctantly glancing over at the jet black, sophisticated, object, before getting up from the leather sofa he was currently sitting in.

"Hello?" He asked, in a tired voice.

"Ah, Spain..." A snippy, and slightly posh, voice greeted; "We have located a building that we believe America to be held hostage in." He broke the news slowly, choosing each word to remain neutral and informative- but Spain clearly knew the hazel eyed man was smiling with glee.

"What!" His eyes grew wide- they had finally cornered him; Romano would be proven innocent. "H-how?" Antonio inquired, shouting down the receiver.

"Thank god that China has amazing detective skills," the man laughed heartedly, clearly relieved. "So do you want to see the 'unveiling' of our little Ringmaster?"

"Of course;" _I need to prove that Roma's innocent._

"I'll send you the coordinates via your mobile."

'Buono! Tomato buono Tomato. Buono buono ooh, tomato,' his phone sang. That was fast, Spain thought whilst flicking his phone screen up.

"Thanks, Inglaterra," The Spaniard spoke, before hanging up.

England smiled, leaning back into the armchair, whilst sipping his Earl Grey. "Are you sure about going through this?" He asked the spectre standing opposite from him.

"I'm not sure- the murderer needs to pay, I know.- but I feel as if he shouldn't."

"Italy, it's for the best." The sandy haired nation replied, albeit half-heartedly. We are so close...

"I know," was all his reply.

"Well then;" England said, putting his tea down. "Shall we go?" He gestured to the door, watching Italy open it, reluctantly.

"Very well."

"Oh my gosh!" China cried, gazing at the flames licking the sky.

Red-dyed flames rose up from the grand, blank, craftsman house. It proudly stood in the middle of a field- privately owned- which one would not know of, unless purposely looking for it. However, the flames laughed, mocking the countries standing before it, while it singed the snowy bricks black.

"Seriously, someone bloody call the paramedics! America is probably in there," England stated, quickly pulling his Vertu out of his pocket when nobody did so. "Uh, hello. This is Mr. Arthur Kirkland. We need a fire brigade to the following coordinates..." He began to talk, impatiently, with the officer on the end. After a heated debate, England announced that they were "on their way."

Great ruby engines drove across the grassy, lumpy, terrain with the force of a majestic lion. The noise from the thunderous engines were enough to make France cover his ears in an elegant flourish- clearly exaggerating.

A few men ran in, checking for survivors, whilst the rest hosed down. The concentration on their faces, the delicate frown painted on their faces, the hardened hands that fastened around the various hoses.

"There's people in here!" A masculine voice shouted amongst the flames. "We'll need to stretchers;" he commanded.

Another two men rushed in, each carrying a white flame-proof stretcher. Moments later, they came out, with two men laying on them. One was America, the other... England couldn't believe it.

"_America,run you bastard! Someone bloody set this freaking place ablaze!" His captor screamed. "Get yourself out of this house."_

"_Why? Look I understand you killed Italy but you don't need to burn to pay for it!" America retorted, his eyes worried but angry._

"_It's fine- it's you they want anyway."_

"_No, it's not," America declared. "Everyone deserves a second chance- a chance to become the hero." America offered his hand to the slaughterer, a slight smile of understanding on his face. _

_Slam!_

"_No; dammit!" America yelled, watching as a wooden beam fell on the other nation. He watched as the fiery nation's face contorted in agony, his mouth open in a silent scream. _

_Smoke filled the room, covering his efforts to remove the beam- even though he, himself, was getting blisters and slowly becoming ablaze from the merciless fire. _


	11. Falsa Realidad: Funhouse

'Beep, beep, beep', the metallic voice continuously repeated at a steady beat. Wires emerged from the source and wrapped around the nation. The soft, slow, breathing of a man could be heard in the thick silence; a man crouching on an uncomfortable wooden chair, gazing at his friend. The man smiled sadly. He was confident that his fellow nation couldn't have become a cold murderer- but the evidence was against him. He was the only one willing to stand against the tide.

"_We have concluded that South Italy- and the current Italy- is responsible for murdering a fellow nation. He will be charged with death, unless proved innocent or in the wrong state of mind at the time of murder- Seborga will take his place and become the current, unified Italy. There will be no trial." China announced, after much debate._

_So what was the point in treating Romano, when they had announced his death sentence?_

A groan was heard from the snow bedsheets. Spain jumped up, ignoring the fact that his legs were trying to root him to the floor. He walked eagerly towards the bed, trying to make sure his Romano was okay- it wasn't like Spain hadn't done better deeds, in his lengthy life.

"R-Romano?" Spain stuttered, his eyes wide with hope.

"What the fuck happened?" A weak, yet angry, voice greeted him. "Dammit, I can't move..." He stated, looking up at Spain in annoyance.

"You broke your legs in the fire." The emerald eyed nation stated.

Romano just sighed.

"_But why?" Spain shouted, his voice hoarse. "Stop fucking around Romano! You're being stupid, there's nothing wrong with your brother." He reasoned._

"_You just don't understand, Spain; you never did." He muttered, softly, but Spain had heard. He had heard everything._

"I was trying to get America out of that damn fire- someone set it alight. I thought it may have been one of you, thinking I had killed him." Romano suddenly stated, a small smile playing on his lips.

"It wasn't one of us, Romano. I would have stopped them- even if it wasn't you," Spain forced the words out of his mouth. He said it with conviction, trying to make sure Romano understood.

"I thought it was England... I tried to get Alfred out but he wouldn't listen, that burger-eating bastard."

"America said that, he thought it was England too;" He laughed, a humourless laugh.

"What happened to America? What about the others?" Romano inquired.

"He's fine- they're all fine. Romano, I'm worried about you. As soon as you're well enough, they are going to interrogate you. The others want to know everything." The Spaniard answered calmly, then pleading.

"You want to know too, you tomato bastard." He smiled, weakly.

Spain let out a sad laugh, trying to stop the diamond tears threatening to spill.

"Why did you do this?" England asked, his eyebrows furrowed and eyes tired. He wore a grey waistcoat that was completely crumpled with matching trousers, which happened to be surprisingly pressed. His sandy hair leaned backwards- a much messier version of Germany's- due to running his long, feminine, fingers through it.

"It doesn't matter;" Romano kept his voice monotone- for fear it would crack, unless controlled. He couldn't reveal the truth- he would be deemed weak and helpless. He was strong; he had to be strong; he was as hard as titanium.

"Of course it does! You killed a god-damned nation, kidnapped another, burnt the place down- obviously trying to kill both of you in the process; how does that not matter!" The nation spat, his face getting remarkably close to the Southern man.

"For you information, you tea-sucking twat, I did not burn 'the place' down. You need to get your fact right before accusing anyone of anything, detective." The killer smiled, "after all, you kill people everyday."

A smack was heard.

"Someone has issues," Romano smiled wider. "Did the great Britannia feel offended?"

England just huffed, before diverting the conversation to it's original path. "Romano, South Italy, whatever, why did you kill your brother?" England asked, taking a deep breath.

"Because I did;" he answered, happily. "If your done trying to get answers out of me, can I go?" Romano looked up at him, jade locking with emeralds.

"Fine, go." England spat, "but you'll have to see a doctor." He smiled, knowing that, although Romano killed another, he would still refuse medical treatment; Spain had told him that.

"I don't care," was his words. "Do what you want, it doesn't matter." The fiery Brunette allowed the guards to escort him to his room, a knowing smile dancing his face.

As soon as the bedroom door slammed behind him, Romano slumped to the floor. "Stupid Brit, thinking that he can get it all out of me with a few questions. He overestimates my co-operational skills... Though the doctor is going to be a problem- especially if he tries that Psychological shit on me." He muttered to himself, voicing his thoughts aloud- something he's come to do. "They're all stupid; I'm not going to talk any time soon, so they may as well accelerate their plan... It's not like I'm a country anymore." He faced a corner of the ceiling, not knowing a minuscule camera resided there. "After all, I'm nothing but information now; vital at first but disposable." _At least I am now._

The room, itself, was remarkably happy. The colours complemented each other well, and reminded Romano greatly of tomatoes. The walls were painted an emerald green, a bit like his former boss' eyes and the carpet red like the sunset in Italy. The furniture was dark and mysterious, much like this 'current' Romano but somehow seemed in place. Everything seemed perfect to the man, though a bit too perfect.

Though the chair was carelessly leaning against the wall; the only thing out of place.

It was the same, enticing, bitter chocolate colour as the rest of the wooden furniture, however it was away from the rest. Away from the large, rectangular, coffee table and mahogany chairs; away from the dark bed and the alphabetically-arranged bookcase... It was alone.

Romano approached it, feeling a certain pull- probably just curiosity. He ventured slowly, like an unused puppet slowly learning to move. The Southern Itallian felt no need to run those few paces, he had all the time in the world. That is, of course, if England went against dragging him out of the room for another 'interrogation'; after all, England wasn't the most civilised when it came to 'criminals'.

He soon reached the chair, simply standing in front of the object. Romano eventually decided to move it to a more 'suitable' place, knowing it'll stop the unnecessary feeling of unease. He heard a tiny rustle, so soft most would have missed the minuscule drop. The fiery man neatly tucked the chair under the dark mahogany coffee table. I might as well see what was dropped, Romano thought.

A note.

England leant forward, guiding his chair towards the computer. He had to write a report on Romano's behaviour for Seborga- the idiot still thought Romano was innocent. That meant watching his every move for 18 hours of the day- watching that murderer stare into space, watch him move furniture around, watching him breathe. The clues pointed to Romano, however England was starting to believe his innocence. He knew South Italy had every motive to do the deed but his actions- there would have been guilt, surely, or some kind of corruption; with him, there was none. Only confidence, bitter confidence.

_Seborga,_

_Regarding your worries about Romano's innocence- I can assure you, he did murder North Italy. However, I am inclined to believe that he may not be in the right state of mind. South Italy often stares into space, as if fixed on a certain point on the wall, and tends to move items around. In interrogation, he seemed to have adopted an attitude similar to Spain- when an empire- and was spoiling for a fight. _

The sandy haired nation believed this to be satisfactory for the current situation, opting to write more after speaking with the psychologist after Romano's scheduled meeting. Romano seemed unbreakable at the moment, but maybe all he needed was a healthy dose of 'psycho-mumbo-jumbo'.

It couldn't be that bad, right?


	12. Falsa Realidad: Numb

_You thought you could get rid of me that easily?_

_It wont work, my dear Romano,_

_You're just avoiding me now, aren't you._

_Seriously, I already told you that you needn't be afraid._

_-Lavoro_

As soon as Romano read the first line, he felt the urge to violently vomit. Damn him, he thought, I should of thought better! Romano knew he had to act normal, if he was going to get the psychologist to believe he was perfectly fine- that's why he just sat on the floor, staring; he was to hatching a much needed plan. After all, he's not insane- that's why he has to be straightforward with his answers and answer them 'honestly' when required.

"Romano, it's time to go." A masculine male told him, his ice-blue eyes staring. He wore a grey suit, with a pressed while shirt, and a gleaming onyx tie. His sleek black hair flopped around his head rather lazily, with the occasional white hair. He was rather young still, he thought, maybe in his late 30s.

"Very well," was the brunettes only reply.

He let himself be led down many corridors, winding in what seemed like circles. The walls seemed to gradually get darker, the hues deepening until it reached a clay-like grey. The man in front walked with confident, powerful, strides which reminded the red-tainted man of his grandfather. The way he would take powerful steps that made people flock to him by the thousands.

"We're here;" he announced, his voice monotone, as he opened a painted wooden door.

"Ah, Lovino Vargas. Come, sit." A woman greeted, happily yet with great profession. She had a lightly tanned friendly face, with rounded cheeks and kind eyes. They were a autumn brown, shaped like avocados, flecked with earthly amber. Her hair was a mass of curls and protruded from her scalp like a majestic mane.

The guard closed the door behind Romano, leaving him with this woman. Romano decided to sit like he was told- it was no use snapping at her, when she was his chance of survival.

"I know why I'm here," he told her, deciding to get the first question out of the way. She only smiled, in response.

"Well, that's a start;" she spoke like any person would- not simplifying it so stupid minds could understand her words. She wore a slightly crumpled button-up shirt, crimson like lipstick, with a black bow tie. It was well-fitting and gave off a trusting aura- it made the Itallian want to trust her, but he knew he couldn't; she had the power to lock him up. She was the enemy, the enemy he had to convince was his friend.

"I have some questions I'd like you to answer; for example, why did you kill your brother."

He took in a sharp breath, finally deciding to tell the 'truth'. This would allow him to regain his pride, being slightly honest. "My brother knew he was going to die- he told me so- he just didn't expect it to be me." He paused, allowing the psychologist to sink it in "I didn't mean to, it's a bit hazy if I'm honest." He pulled a stony face, setting himself up to let a tiny lie slip. "I don't know why I did it," but Romano knew exactly why he did it, a tale he had to keep sealed. A tale he had to keep hidden or else people will pay for it.

"So it was accidental?" She raised her eyebrows, looking at him in the eye.

"No. It was not accidental;" Romano sighed. At least that was true, he thought.

"_Romano, we need to talk." North Italy stated, his voice unusually serious. His eyes had a determined look in them and his eyebrows were furrowed in concentration. _

"_Have we run out of pasta again?"_

"_No, we need to talk about our country." _

"_I'm listening;" Romano looked him in the eye, sitting so he was facing his brother at the dinner table. _

"_I think- I think someone wants to kill me. I have this uneasy feeling that something bad is going to happen, like I'm going to be murdered." His tone was solemn. _

"_Feli, you over-react about everything;" his brother sighed. "Seriously, you're so melodramatic." _

Romano shuddered, reliving that memory. "No, it wasn't accidental," he repeated. "I meant for it to happen. I was so out of it- all I remember was being so angry. So frustrated. I felt as if I had to do it, and I felt no remorse. I forgot about it, I was determined to avenge Feli- but I remembered bit by bit..." He allowed himself to resume to the truth, allowing himself to stick to his story.

The woman only wrote down a few notes.

"And did this impact you, remembering?" She asked with interest, yet she seemed sincere. She leaned slightly forward, her eyes resting on his face.

"It felt surreal at first. It felt as if I could have never had done that, but as time went on I began to understand why. Then when England went after Spain- stupid Antonio who knew nothing- and I knew I had to do something; I kidnapped America. I didn't hurt him or anything- we talked. He seemed to _accept _me and what I did and then that stupid fire started!" He stopped in his tracks, for if he didn't the full truth would come out. "I wanted to clear Spain but ended up caught. I knew it would happen, eventually- I admit I was a little sloppy in leaving clues." Romano laughed humourlessly; "I'm sure it was England who put it all together. After all, he never really liked me... I was a suspect from the start."

"Do you regret 'kidnapping' America?"

"It was a bit weird at first, having a little company. But no, I don't regret it."

"Thank you, Lovino, you may go."

England looked at the psychologist, his eyes meeting hers with question. "How did it go?" He asked, his head poking up from his laptop.

"I think Lovi- Romano- is not, completely, mentally sane. He's not as mentally unbalanced as most of my patients, however the way he answers the questions isn't normal. He feels no remorse for committing morally wrong acts- such as kidnapping- and he's unusually cooperative compared to your notes. Also, I feel as if he may have been intoxicated the night he murdered North Italy. He cannot completely recall the night and he did not remember the fact he even murdered his brother until after the event."

"That does suggest an excessive intake of drugs;" England agreed. "We shall plan his punishment after more meetings. If you'll agree to it, of course."

"Very well. Oh and I have a piece of information for you. Even though we found out this much today, he's still hiding something; I believe that he's merely the hit-man, if you will- the mastermind is still at large. This case is still far from solved, England"


End file.
